


hangman, lariat

by losebetter



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Fight Club - Freeform, M/M, Oral Sex, [throws my hands up] it's jack i'm sorry, a surprising lack of violence for something tagged 'fight club', there's.. still some mild violence though?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-26 20:16:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9920669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/losebetter/pseuds/losebetter
Summary: It would’ve even been okay, maybe, if Rhys had only been in it for the money. By this point the three of them have a system, practically a science, and as surreal as it feels it has actually elevated them, padded Rhys’ pockets more than he would’ve thought.Point: he has a few nice new shirts, which would be perfectly fine if he didn’t secretly hope, every time he wore one to fight club and his eyes caught on the dense slouch of Jack’s sweating back in the ring, that he would turn around and rip it off him.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sealdog](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sealdog/gifts), [ThirtySixSaveFiles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThirtySixSaveFiles/gifts), [lasciel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lasciel/gifts).



> IT’S FIGHTCLUB FIC - and here’s the thing, **definitely definitely** read **[this thread](http://thirtysixsavefiles.tumblr.com/post/157616141034/i-see-ur-tags-but-honestly-my-preferred-jack-is)** first, i promise you. [@ssealdog](http://ssealdog.tumblr.com/), [@thirtysixsavefiles](http://thirtysixsavefiles.tumblr.com), and [@ledgem](http://ledgem.tumblr.com) are really the very cool people who got this all rolling. i’m… kinda just the one who took one look at it and took it directly to the sun chips place, because i’m a human disaster. 
> 
> anyway. thank you guys so much for the encouragement as well!! <3 definitely the only reason it got done or posted, i really appreciate it. (also, as usual, ty [@asexualshepard](http://archiveofourown.org/users/asexualshepard/) for being great.)
> 
> (re: the title: can you actually pull a lariat out of a hangman? i dunno. it's been a while. but it was either that or _FALLAWAY MOONSAULT SLAM_ which has even _less_ to do with the fic and would've kicked the campiness factor of the whole experience up another eight thousand notches, so. at least i didn't do that.)
> 
>  **UPDATE:** the lovely [@queen-schadenfreude](http://queen-schadenfreude.tumblr.com) did it again; she illustrated rhys from this AU [over here](http://queen-schadenfreude.tumblr.com/post/157755495773/rhysie-as-described-in-ripdumpys-fic-hangman)! i'm in lOVE with it and i hope you are also!! ;O;/ ty so much!

It’s only a matter of time in a stuffy, honest, bloodspitting little space like fight club, until something like this comes to a head - no room for tension in a place that’s already so carved out from the norm, that seizes as if with living nerves every time Jack is there, and lands a hit.

It would’ve even been okay, maybe, if Rhys had only been in it for the money. By this point the three of them have a system, practically a science, and as surreal as it feels it has actually elevated them, padded Rhys’ pockets more than he would’ve thought. 

Point: he has a few nice new shirts, which would be perfectly fine if he didn’t secretly hope, every time he wore one to fight club and his eyes caught on the dense slouch of Jack’s sweating back in the ring, that he would turn around and rip it off him.

He, Vaughn, and Yvette have spent a few weeks in relative peace - despite the random nature of meetings, fight club ultimately turns into just another part of their routine. Yvette ribs Rhys a little, even after the bruises from Jack fade, but certainly no one else is gutsy or unsporting enough to pull Rhys into the ring, and even Jack, gaze like a hot knife aside, leaves him be. 

Rhys is… admittedly disappointed. He had entertained the possibility of Jack singling him out more, maybe looking him up during daylight hours to see him at work, but fight club’s illusion of anonymity proves to be annoyingly consistent. His stomach still drops every time they arrive for their little side-job and he senses the electricity in the air that means Jack is among them, but his daydreams of Jack grabbing for him again, yanking, hand leaving bloody smears over his tattoo (and - yeah, okay, his dick) have been pretty stellarly quashed by this point.

It’s about oh-two-hundred on a Thursday, Jack is leaving the ring, thumbing blood off his split lip, and Rhys decides to take matters into his own hands.

The ring is housed in an old storage facility on the lower levels, in a dim room that became high-ceilinged only when they finally cleaned out the floor above it that had collapsed through. It leads out to a corridor lit only by emergency strips along the floor, which Rhys has always assumed to be a factor of either budget cuts or _everyone_ on Helios’ flair for the goddamn dramatic.

It’s that corridor that he lets himself out into now, through the side doors closest to the ring - not quite on Jack’s heels but close enough that he stops walking, sets his shoulders without turning around.

Rhys has, unhelpfully, started trembling, the abrupt reality of Handsome Jack being broad and covered in gore and directly in front of him hitting him hard. When Jack tilts his head on his neck _just so_ , Rhys knows in his gut that he’s being observed. Jack is probably watching his feet.

He swallows. Now or never. “Hey.”

Jack grants him a further turn of his head, one eye right on his face now, dead-center. His bloody lips twitch, and Rhys knows why, knows what he’s just said.

_This isn’t an accident_. _I meant to be here._

_I meant to follow you_.

When Jack speaks his voice is quiet, not his usual frenzied crowing, but Rhys would have to be a lot dumber than he is to think he was any safer like this.

“You think you’re special, sweetheart?” Jack asks, to the point. “Is that it?”

_Little bit_ , Rhys thinks, but he knows a trap when he hears one.

Here’s the thing that both of them know, is, fight club’s rules (spoken or only understood) don’t protect you outside the doors. The lack of adherence to hierarchy stops the second you leave, and even if it hadn’t -

Another unspoken understanding: _When Handsome Jack goes, you don’t follow him._

It’s less of a rule and more of a general guideline for staying alive - and for all Rhys trusts his instincts, he knows if he’s not quick enough on his feet, Jack will abandon their little game just to spite him and he’ll get spaced for his trouble.

It’s a little thrilling.

“How about this,” Rhys prompts - he puts his hands on his hips and cocks one, measured, not fucking around. He sees Jack’s eye flick down, back up, and fear shudders through him, drying out his mouth. He tries to fight through it. “You - give me about ten minutes, then you decide for yourself,” he finishes, not daring to break eye contact.

Jack has clearly heard him, but there’s a stretch of deathly silence that follows his proposition. Rhys has never had it quite like this before, where a ‘no’ feels like it would snap all his bones just from the release of pressure. He doesn’t blink - until all at once, Jack throws his head back and cackles, turning fully to face him.

“ _Ohh_ ho, look who grew a pair after all,” he lauds. He’s dressed again but still grimy from the fight, and from the front it’s even more striking: the lick of blood from his hairline, under the sweat-rumpled fall of his usual curl, the purple-red bruise hiding just to the side of his eye, muted on the synthetic skin of his mask. When Rhys meets his eyes again Jack is grinning like a wolf, letting him look - he spreads his arms and steps in close. “Alright, killer. Play ball.”

Rhys grimaces. “Was that a - " he starts, before he can think, and he shuts his mouth on it right in the middle. Apparently that was the right move, because Jack tilts his head and smiles, showing a hint of bloodstained teeth.

“Mind if I smoke?” he asks, like he couldn’t give a damn, but he makes no move toward his pockets, like he already knows what Rhys is gonna tell him.

“Yup,” Rhys confirms, and Jack’s smile only grows wider. Rhys feels dizzy going toe to toe with him like this, but thankfully he won’t have to be on his feet for long. He pushes Jack’s hips with both hands. “Back up.”

Jack hits the wall about twenty feet from the metal double-doors leading to the ring, and as Rhys settles gingerly on his knees he registers absently that anyone coming or going would be able to see them there, lit up clearly by the emergency runners.

It makes him want to bury his face between Jack’s legs; partly to hide, and partly -

Ugh.

He reaches up toward Jack’s belt, testing the leather and pulling it out of the buckle once he’s satisfied the attached holster won’t budge. His sweater is next, and Rhys pushes that up out of his pants, slips his shirttails out of the way - and he balks when he feels Jack’s big hand on him, slick blood on his skin gumming up his hair, a particularly stubborn drip beading, sliding down his temple until it slows next to his ear.

He blinks and stills, thrown off, and both hears and feels Jack’s low chuckle.

“Hey, I mean, take your time,” he drawls, “you’re the one on the clock, pretty, not me.”

Rhys licks his lips, trying to refocus and shifting his legs apart a little bit to give him better leverage, and to give his dick some room. He’d dressed simply tonight - collared shirt, suspenders, and dark jeans that hug his curves, but he can feel it all starting to chafe at him wrong. 

He doesn’t bother biting back, just slips his hands between the open ends of Jack’s belt to work open his pants, feeling the salt of dried sweat in the coarse hair under his belly as his knuckles pass over it. 

It’s dark, and he’s distracted enough that it’s a surprise to realize that Jack is almost fully hard already - from the fights or Rhys’ lip or all of it, cock stuffed down one leg of his worn jeans but swaying up toward Rhys’ fingers once he pulls them and Jack’s underwear down enough. It makes Rhys’ face and the back of his neck burn, the sight of his naked cock and hips somehow reminding him that this is not only his superior - the goddamn _CEO_ of the company he works for - but also _Handsome Jack_ , the most widely loathed and ludicrously unpredictable tyrant in six galaxies.

The logical part of Rhys’ brain informs him dully, smothered by the adrenaline rush, that it’s weirdly humanizing to see him like this - and that if Jack gets a whiff of that thought, Rhys will almost definitely get killed just for convenience’s sake. He spares a thought for the friends he’d ditched inside ( _at least he died doing what he loved_ , Yvette will say, and he won’t be alive to pretend to correct her) but otherwise doesn’t hesitate, just shifts his hands - metal one on Jack’s thigh, the other low on his hip - and leans in to press his mouth to the base of Jack’s dick, skirting over the soft skin at the junction of his balls.

It should feel like a mistake to go for that first - and, honestly, Rhys wrinkles his nose because it kind of _smells_ like one, even if the sweat and dirt and humiliation-adjacent nastiness of it is kind of fervently working for him (something he’ll gladly take to that fast-approaching grave) - but when he holds Jack’s cock out of the way with his flesh hand and lets his balls sit heavily on his tongue, Jack laughs proudly, like they’ve succinctly shared a private joke.

It’s worth it.

“ _Thanks_ for that,” Jack croons generously. His hand tightens in Rhys’ hair, pulling his head back hard and making his cheeks flush all over again. “Really. But I’m trying to help you, here, kitten. Tick tock.”

It doesn’t even sound like a lie, which spurs Rhys on - he licks his bottom lip just to make a show of it, and even if he can’t see Jack’s face clearly from his position on the floor, the fingers in his hair curl affectionately towards the back of his head. Jack isn’t pushing him to do it, he’s not that desperate yet, but something possessive in Rhys makes him want to get him there.

Jack hums when Rhys tips forward to take the head of his dick past his lips, repositioning to hold the rest of it in place with the warming steel of his left hand. It’s habit to check early on, test guys’ reactions with his cybernetic arm to gauge what they’ll be most into, and he can hear the indulgent sigh from above him that means he should _definitely_ stick with the metal hand for Jack. It’ll be hell to clean later, tacky pre-come already smearing over the lens of his palmscreen’s projector, but he doesn’t care. Honestly, it’s kind of making it better for him, knowing. 

He wonders if Jack has ever had a partner like him before - and it almost makes him want to laugh, his own vanity propping him up and straightening his back as he pulls more of Jack’s cock into his mouth; Jack’s never had cybernetic fingers like his inside him before, because Rhys built them himself - and he’s the fucking best there is, in his humble opinion.

It must do something to the curl of his lips, because off the cuff of a wispy breath, Jack grunts, “something funny, babe?” and pushes himself a little harder into Rhys’ mouth, making the sides of his mouth ache, chafing his already sore lips.

Rhys makes a noise, a muffled hum, but doesn’t want to pull off to try talking, and he’s losing ground fast. Out of ideas and honestly a little overwhelmed by the slick weight of Jack’s dick on his tongue, he does the first thing he can think of and slides his free hand up under Jack’s sweater, to where he can see the discoloration of a fresh bruise peeking out, and pushes on it, _hard_.

Jack’s reaction is immediate - the hand in Rhys’ hair tightens its grip and he hisses, barks out, “ _watch yer_ \- " before he cuts himself off, tipping his head back with a growl.

Because Rhys had felt how the pinch of pain made his cock twitch, and Jack knows it. He thumbs the bruise again just to feel it happen again, the wet head of Jack’s cock hitting the roof of his mouth, almost breaching his throat.

Rhys looks up innocently, less to see him (he still can’t, which is actually a little disappointing) and more to turn dopey doe-eyes where Jack can see them in the dim light.

_How’s it feel to lose_ , he thinks savagely, but dials it back when all Jack does in response is start petting through his hair again, keeping it away from his face. Honestly, Jack is good at getting his cock sucked - not obnoxious, not awkwardly silent, the give and take _just_ hitting all of Rhys’ buttons. So he demurs, pulling back a fraction to prepare before taking Jack’s cock straight to the back of his throat, nose pressed against unruly curls.

It draws a strangled sound out of Jack, and Rhys can hear when it tapers off into a soft pant. The hitch of his breath makes Rhys want to purr; he’s feeling pretty special, alright.

“Bravado’ll take you a long way,” Jack mumbles - it sounds like he’s testing his voice, trying to keep it steady, so Rhys attentively pulls off a few inches before sliding back down, flat of his tongue curling around the thick weight of Jack’s dick. 

Jack’s quiet, pinched whine is worth the throb in his jaw, and he hums as the hand in his hair spasms before it goes back to petting him, tugging through his gelled tips.

“ _Buuuut_ it’s nice to know you’re not all talk,” Jack continues, determined. Rhys’ toes curl in his shoes, the praise - from _Handsome Jack_ of all people - dropping straight into his stomach and sending heat blooming across his hips.“Just make sure you got the skill to back up your - bull, kid, that’s all I’m saying.”

At first Rhys thinks that’s going to be the end of it, just, oddly innocuous advice - but then Jack’s hand on his head tips over to his temple, and there’s an almost gentle brush against the skin surrounding his port that makes him groan immediately, lidded eyes flying open.

“Huh,” Jack breathes. Rhys feels the finger at his temple turn, and the light skate of Jack’s blunt fingernail against his skin makes him shiver, suddenly needing the hand at Jack’s hip for balance. He moans again, muffled, fingers of his metal hand curling up uselessly beside Jack’s cock and his own nose.

“Well anyway,” Jack pronounces, letting up on the port to push Rhys’ wrecked hair back off his forehead again, “you spit on the floor and I’ll make you lick it off.”

Rhys’ lashes flutter. Through the smarm of the command, he realizes two things: one, Jack is - close, _Handsome Jack is close to coming down his throat_ \- and he’d actually _warned_ him - and two, that he has options. He could just pull off and jerk him off into his hand, no harm, no foul. Or…

Rhys swallows automatically when he thinks about it, and the bump of Jack’s cock in his throat makes him squirm. _If you’re gonna go_ , he thinks - and without a second thought, he squeezes his metal hand between Jack’s thighs to nudge up under his balls, carefully rolling them under the hard line of his thumb.

It only takes a couple more rubs before Jack’s hand tightens warningly in his hair - and Rhys tries to listen for every noise Jack makes when he comes, but the rush of blood in his ears drowns it out. It even drowns out his own muffled keening despite his throat vibrating with it, his hitched gasp cutting out at the sudden slick heat of spunk all the way down to his belly.

Great. _Awesome_.

Jack feigns back, just a touch, and Rhys can feel the forming bruises at the corners of his mouth screaming at him, somehow way less important than the hot flush he can feel from his throat to the tips of his ears.

Too soon - a handful of Rhys’ jackrabbit heartbeats later, at least - Jack is pulling out of his mouth, tilting his head with one hand and using the other to catch any come stuck to his softening cock, letting it drip off his fingers and back onto Rhys’ tongue and wiping them off against his cheek. Really, it’s a good thing Jack is taking care of it, because Rhys is having some trouble finding any kind of obvious signals from his own brain.

Belatedly, he sinks back and wipes the excess drool off his lips and chin with his sleeve. He can hear Jack putting his dick away, the zip of his jeans and neat pull of his belt. Rhys just tries to focus on breathing - but that gets unfortunately interrupted when the first thought in his head turns out to be that his knees are hurting, _bad_. He hisses, shifting around on the floor, and then Jack says, suddenly, “okay.”

Standing up is a herculean effort - but once Rhys does it, it occurs to him that he’s actually a little taller than Jack, which is a weird thought. He squints at Jack’s face, still dazed - and gasps when Jack lunges for him, slamming him against the wall with one hand around his slim throat. Oh god, _oh god_ , he’d forgotten about the murdering thing, he’s confused and the roof of his mouth tastes like jizz and when Jack tightens his grip his _still-hard dick twitches_ because apparently he’s just learning all kinds of things about himself tonight.

He gasps again, eyes wide with fear - but Jack doesn’t even look angry, the cool set of his expression swift, businesslike.

“Who are you,” he growls, no fussy monologue and somehow scarier for it. “A mole?” Rhys chokes, hands trapped between them by Jack’s free arm, and Jack taps the side of his neck with his pointer, thinking. “No… So what was the point? Information?” 

Jack squints - and then he moves in even closer, bracketing Rhys’ arms with his body so he can use the hand not choking him to manhandle the side of his head, thumb pulling down his left cheek and eyelid to stare even harder. Oh.

Rhys instinctively blinks to the extent that he can, managing to swallow past the barrier of Jack’s heavy hand and wet his wrecked throat.

“It - it wasn’t on,” he gurgles, and when Jack eases off his neck a little bit he breathes greedily, so fast that spots flash in the corners of his vision.

Jack’s expression hasn’t cleared, though.

“Yeah, picked up on that one, princess,” he says, and Rhys winces when he lets go of his eye to thumb brutally over his temple port again, instead, this time pulling at the sensitive skin like he’s trying to make it knock against his skull. It makes Rhys feel a little nauseous but a _lot_ turned on, and the rush of blood to his face only thickens the fog in his head.

Jack stops prodding at him, evidently satisfied, and Rhys immediately misses the touches, deft as they were. _Brains and brawn_ , he thinks stupidly, and he’d probably laugh if he could get it out around the grip of Jack’s calloused hand.

“Alright, spit it out then,” he says, and Rhys gulps when the pressure ticks up on his neck, Jack cutting off his air by degrees. His rings dig into the soft skin, and Rhys is distantly afraid he’ll do lasting damage. “What’d you even want, a promotion? A quick death? Ah,” and Rhys hadn’t seen Jack falter until now - but he does, just for a second, when he glances down between them. 

He recovers fast, though, shark’s smile back in place by the time he looks up again. “…oh.”

All at once Rhys’ next breath in is a full one, and it shakes through him, brings an embarrassing wheezing noise out with it. Jack’s hand has shifted to one side, thumb rubbing contemplatively down the center of his neck, but the immediate threat is gone, and Rhys feels his eyes slip shut, trying to fight his body’s instinct to just hit the floor with relief and _also_ having to clench his thighs up to push away a blind orgasm. 

Jack looks smug about it all, like he knows how close Rhys had been. It makes something in his stomach curl up tight, but thankfully the spike of arousal passes, dulls back to a simmer.

“Just a junkie, huh?” Jack suggests, but it doesn’t sound as demeaning as Rhys thinks it should. He backs off, flexing his fingers and appraising Rhys again.

“Oughta really let yourself have it, pumpkin,” he instructs, tilting his head. “Get in the ring next time. Always works for me.”

Rhys reaches up to touch his neck, feeling the strain. He clumsily undoes a button on his rumpled collar, still trying to catch up with everything that had happened. “Not,” he rasps, then remembers that Jack likes eye contact when he’s talking to him, and looks up, “not really a fighter.”

There’s a merry glint in Jack’s eye as he grins. “Oh, uh-huh, I bet you’re just _all_ lover, aren’t you?” Rhys flushes, sliding his hand to the back of his neck and rubbing it, feeling a bit played. 

But Jack whistles for his attention, and when Rhys meets his eyes he winks. Goddamnit all - Rhys can’t tell if Jack’s contentment is from the orgasm or the creative demise he’s probably planning for him, but it soothes him either way. “Whatever gets you hot, sunshine - but I think it’d suit you.” He rolls one shoulder, arms still loosely crossed, not looking rushed in the slightest despite the lingering threat of potential gawkers. “Plus…” His smile turns lecherous. “You took care of me - I might as well get you back. Don’t gotta be a fighter for that.” 

Jack spends another few seconds staring at Rhys with that - _look_ on his face, assessing him, before he abruptly reaches out for him. He hooks his bloodstained pointer under one of Rhys’ suspenders, then lets it go, snapping it against Rhys’ chest and grinning when he flinches. “Cute,” he judges, voice low. 

That bomb dropped, he turns on his heel to leave. “S’all I’m sayin’, cupcake! Don’t be a stranger.” He flicks one hand out in a lazy wave as he goes, leaving Rhys to sag against the wall, stunned and staring at his back. “Ciao.”

Honestly, even after Jack leaves the floor completely, Rhys tracking the elevator with his ECHO eye (he loses track of it after a while like it’s going all the way up, straight past his clearance level - is Jack going back to _work_?), he doesn’t settle. Jack may not have done the deed personally, but Rhys still fully expects an attempt on his life tonight. His fingers twitch against the wall behind him as if that would go anywhere toward saving his ass if Jack just vents the corridor.

Assuming he doesn’t decide to pitch the whole substation into the aether. Rhys shudders - it’d certainly be one way to get rid of the Hyperion employees most likely to get into some kind of physical altercation with him, all at once, and Rhys might’ve had his cock crammed down his throat but he doesn’t exactly have a clear idea of Jack’s mood…

He shakes his head, absently running his fingers over his neck, then up to his mouth. 

“You’re thinking like him,” he scolds himself, voice a hoarse murmur. He flicks his eyes up to the silent elevator doors one more time, but when a few moments pass and nothing happens, he finally lets himself take a full breath, sinking down into a sitting position against the wall.

A few calming breaths and he starts to get his bearings again - a mixed blessing, clearly, because he starts feeling the soreness at his throat, the corners of his lips. Hell, his untouched dick hurts, and if it had been anyone other than Handsome Jack to stiff him (or - heh, not stiff him?) this way, he’d already be planning his first act of petty revenge.

As it is… Rhys’ next breath feels a little heavier, and he can feel the heat in his cheeks, his throat. He doesn’t know if it’s some kind of delayed reaction to still being alive, or - what, but -

He touches his sore lips again. He’ll deal with it _later_. Jack isn’t going to suddenly shut down the oxygen generators for this level because he has plans to return to fight club. He wants to see Rhys again - he wants to see Rhys in the ring. To - to _get him back_ for the quickie in the hallway?

Rhys whimpers.

His thoughts scatter when he hears the unmistakable creak of the main doors, and he instinctively sits up a little straighter against the wall, never mind his protesting back.

“Rhys!”

Oh, thank god. Well, thank god Vaughn hadn’t shown up any earlier - but mostly _thank god_.

“What, um, what’re you doing? Rhys?” Vaughn asks, his sure steps faltering just a little when he gets a look at him. He looks like he’s trying to make sense of what he’s seeing, and Rhys figures he can’t blame him.

_Picking Handsome Jack’s pubic hair out of my teeth_ , he thinks automatically, and tamps down on an inappropriately hysterical giggle. He might have said it aloud if it didn’t feel so much like a lie, or some weird metaphor. He purses his lips and looks up, no other explanation coming to him.

“Just…” Vaughn hazards, “havin’ a… sit? On the floor?”

“Something like that.” Rhys tries to be nonchalant, but voice cracks in the middle of it, which figures.

“Um - “

“Is he okay?! _Jesus_ , Vaughn, don’t - " The sound of Yvette’s heels clacking further down the corridor comes to an abrupt halt and Rhys looks up, meeting her eyes over Vaughn’s head. “Rhys? Are you dying?” she asks, and at least she’s asking simpler questions.

“No. Well - heh, no.” Not immediately, anyway.

Yvette pushes past Vaughn to squat next to him; Rhys doesn’t know how she makes it look elegant, maybe he should ask her for tips - “I lost track of you - figured you were just working the outer rim, then you didn’t show up before Vaughn’s fight, and I realized I hadn’t seen you since Jack left - “

She pauses, her eyes narrowing behind her glasses, and Rhys gives her his best hangdog look.

It’s the wrong move. “Oh my god, _Rhys_. What did you _do_?”

“Uhhhhm,” he stalls, and glances up to Vaughn, who’s still standing between them and the ringside doors.

Vaughn puts his hands up - _great, cool, thanks for the help, bro_ \- and Yvette takes Rhys by the shoulders, shaking him.

“Rhys - _hey_ \- did you follow Jack? Is he gonna kill you?”

Another easy question, thankfully. “Haa, nope!” Rhys actually feels so confident about this one that he smiles, then clumsily covers his mouth with his hand when he catches the scent of straight-up dick backwash. Euugh. “I - um, no. No, he’s not.”

“…are you sure?”

That’s fair. “N - no.”

“Ask him something else,” Vaughn suggests, “something he has to say yes to. This is weird.”

Yvette spares Vaughn a withering glance, but she’s back to frowning at Rhys before Rhys gets the chance to feel any joy about that. “You’re not sure?” she asks slowly.

Rhys licks his lips. “No,” he admits. “But it’s, Jack? So there’s really… there’s no way to really… Um. I don’t think he’s gonna kill me.” He blinks. “Or you guys. Or, you know. I think we’re - we’re good.”

Yvette lets out a long sigh, but something in the jumble seems to have eased her fears. Rhys has no idea what, but he’ll take it.

She stands, turning to Vaughn, and Rhys cranes his neck to look up at the two of them.

“We’re calling it a night,” she says, and Vaughn nods. She turns to give Rhys a severe look, and Rhys manages a meek thumbs up in return. “Rhys, if you think he’s not gonna send out night scouts, we should all split up and get to sleep.”

Sleep sounds like the _best_ possible idea to Rhys. He feels like he had after that memorable night in the ring with Jack, his whole body aching and sore. 

Jack wants him to do all of that all over again. Jack thinks he’s _cute_.

“Y - yeah,” he agrees, late. He licks his lips again and swallows. “Uh - will one of you help me up?”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! ♥ if you wanna chat about the fic, feel free to hit up [my borderlands blog](http://ripdumpy.tumblr.com).
> 
> honestly, i could see myself writing a second part to this, but it would depend on a number of factors - including the beastly pair of wips i fully intended to finish before i wrote rhack fic but um. hey, look! over there's a, thing...!


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